


Off to the Races

by quentintarrantino



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quentintarrantino/pseuds/quentintarrantino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>007 was lost the moment he looked up the staircase and saw Q fiddling with his cufflinks, the way the suit hung off his gangly form and his hair was slicked back, a stray bit escaping and falling in his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off to the Races

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this listening to Off to the Races by Lana Del Rey, I recommend listening while reading.

It was the glam that keep drawing him to this life, the feel of a tuxedo against his chest and the way the handgun fits just so in the palm of his hand. The lull of the lights of the casino as he walked through the floor and eyes turned to stare at him all the way down the line as if he was some kind of god. It all goes to his head and the smirk playing on his features isn’t forced in the slightest. Watching the shifty eyes of the bad guys and the way they know just what is coming for them, the applause when he walks into MI6 and the praise that showered him. 007, an enigma, women were asking after him day and night.

Watching the twinkle of a chandelier just before it shattered when a bullet pierced it and it splintered across the hotel lobby, the rev of an Aston Martin as he took off in hot pursuit. This was him, not an agent but a symbol of the golden age, the way things used to be. He was what little boys dreamed of when they said secret agent in response to profession of choice. He had a reputation about him, pretty girls hanging off his arms and the chips always in his favor.

007 was lost the moment he looked up the staircase and saw Q fiddling with his cufflinks, the way the suit hung off his gangly form and his hair was slicked back, a stray bit escaping and falling in his face. The flush of the man’s normally pale cheeks, excitement bright in his eyes despite his attempts to squash it. A mission that required two and they sent him after 007 thinking he was the one for the job. The glow of the marble floors added a new light and now that the cardigan was shed it revealed a new creature waiting to escape. Suave, there was no tremble in his words and the natural haughtiness was no longer pretentious but experienced. The curve of his brow matched Bond and he was knocked off balance momentarily as he climbed the steps to meet up with him.

They exchanged greetings and then they were off, striding with purpose and the lusting gazes no longer followed only the agent but his accomplice. He side eyes a women wearing a backless dress trailing her finger over the rim of her wineglass and Q oozes confidence as he tosses his head and picks up his pace. The double doors of the back room where they are about to bring down the crime boss are closed, the lounge is smoky and low lit a young girl is singing on the stage and the steady beat is laying down how they fear this evening will end.

The gun in Q’s hand betrays how little he actually knows about this trade, his hands tremble once he clutches it despite the mask over his face.  They look at each other and Bond’s own hand rests over the doorknob as the song swells behind them masking their entrance.

_And I’m off to the races…_

They nod briskly before the door is open and the bullets begin to fly immediately. The thick cigar smoke like fog and without a second thought James steps in front of his partner, shoving him back. Knives and fists come second and in the end it’s them standing victorious over a heap of bodies for the police to take away. Curious spectators are watching from behind the tape and when he turns to look at Q his suit is rumpled, a trickle of blood running down his face from a cut and his chest is heaving. Pupils dilated, he looks as if he’s just seen a ghost and once more his cheeks are completely pale. When they leave the scene it’s people asking after that young man this time, he holds his head higher as he steps out and 007’s reputation stretches to cover Q if only for the night. The golden age can be shouldered by one more and the Jaguar he rented purrs like a real cat as they drive away, the smell of smoke clinging to them.

The field suits him, not even 007 can deny it. The bowtie is undone and around his exposed neck as they laugh outside his door, they are both slightly drunk and Q is high off the thrill of surviving. The image of the Quartermaster standing on the top of the stairs burned behind James’s eyelids and when he wakes up in the morning on the other side of the man’s bed it’s all he can do to slip out and take all evidence of his presence with him.

When he shows up to work Q isn’t dressed dangerously anymore, the bland cardigan and his bite is entirely nonthreatening. Bond relaxes and lets himself be shoved out of Q branch in the morning for being a bother and no one brings up last night at all. 007 prays he doesn’t remember and maybe he even buys it himself until next assignment.

He didn’t even notice him to begin with, this was a simple job, he was dressed up and lurking in the crowd waiting for his moment and he sees him out of the corner of his eye.

Q’s clean shaven, leaning back in his chair, legs crossed and a sinful smirk to make even Bond blush and that’s exactly what he does, mouth falling open in surprise. White wine in his glass and an eyebrow raise in challenge, this has turned into a game and he could only expect so much from Q. The suit does things to him that 007 would rather not dwell on. He ignores him for the night, maybe MI6 sent him to keep an eye on the gear as Bond was notorious for breaking and then never returning it. This is what he tells himself as the party ends and Q stands, kissing the hand of a lovely young woman who had been by his side for the whole evening. He passes Bond and his fingers trail over his shoulder and he closes his eyes because James Bond can’t seem to fight this infectious cloying cloud that was the Quartermaster.

He can’t even pretend that night didn’t happen when he pulls the shirt off of that skinny frame so hard it rips and he throws him against the wall. He runs away in the morning but the nasty bruises on Q’s neck are unavoidable even if he doesn’t bring anything up. If he had his way he’d burn the blasted tuxedo and wash his hands of the situation and in his frustration he snaps at the Quartermaster when he makes a snide remark and the other man says nothing and he hopes this means no more surprise appearances.

He runs several more assignments with no sightings and begins to breathe easy, taking women freely to his hotel rooms and he fucks them. No holding no tenderness he fucks them like common hookers and he makes sure they know they aren’t welcome back. He’s clinging to his ego like a dying man clings to life and it’s all over three months later.

“Bond.” He smells the aftershave and the cologne, he’s never smelt it before except on Q and James had meant to ask him the first night where he got it but they had been preoccupied. He was sulking over his trademarked Vesper martini and that light yet unmistakable touch hit him and he turned his face to see the other man standing there. His suit had gotten tailored, it occurred to 007 that perhaps this is the only reason he owns a tuxedo and that it’s a shame because he looks so damn good he would have him right here on this bar.

“Q.” disinterest is feigned they both know it and the rest of the evening is a blur and its all he can do to keep himself focused on his work. There’s a job to do, a lady approaches him as he’s surveying the scene and asks if he would buy her a drink and he knows that 007 would accept and they would make love that night if he played his cards right (and he always did). He raises his eyes to her and sees Q off a ways talking to a stranger to pass the time and he realizes that this woman is unappealing to him suddenly because she is distinctly _not_ Q. He offers a tight smile and says he’s expecting someone and she leaves her hotel room number with him just in case he changes his mind. His ego has withered up and died and he drops the napkin in the trash on his way out.

The target is arrested; he hears the whispers all the way to the door. _Who’s that man? What’s he doing here? He said his name was James Bond. He’s so handsome._ That infernal man is leaning against the Aston Martin and this time he doesn’t even bother fighting, he leans in and its truly a kiss to behold, Q tilts his jaw up and that night in the Quartermasters flat there’s no power struggle. It’s almost a relief to feel himself be laid down on the mattress and legs straddle his sides, murmurs that aren’t his own telling him what an idiot he’s been lately and all he can do is nod his agreement. The suit is lying discarded on a chair and he knows there will be many more times he’ll see it on the man in front him and he’s okay with this now.  

He tries to flee like normal when the sun rises and the berating of the half asleep man in his bed force him back, MI6 stares the whole time as they walk in together and eat breakfast at his desk but no one says a single thing and 007 wonders if his reputation could handle this. He glances up to see Q staring at him contemplatively with half a bagel in his mouth and Bond thinks that yes, he very much can. Usually with the peeling off of that tuxedo the Quartermaster loses most of his allure and he’s once against the harmless too-skinny office jockey but today he’s as toxic as any night in those crowded hotels and casinos. James Bond feels like he’s been slapped.

It’s all downhill from there, he’ll reflect on this strange turn of events many months later when M pairs them together for another mission and this time it’s them side by side in his bathroom staring at each other in the mirror getting dressed. He watches the slender fingers of his lover gel his hair back and do the buttons on his shirt and he knows as 007 he’s ruined it. The old bachelor allure of the golden age of espionage but James Bond couldn’t care less. Q asks him what he’s staring at and the man will say nothing and reach over to help him this time around with his cufflinks, after all this time he’s grown tired of stealing the agents and so had some custom made, two scrabble pieces. More of a personal statement. 


End file.
